


When I Kiss You, SPRQs Fly

by ElliHelm



Category: Zoey's Extraordinary Playlist (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Drunken Shenanigans, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Hawaiian Pizza Loving, How Oblivious Can Zoey Clarke Be?, Idiots in Love, Jar Jar Binks Stanning, Loss of Parent(s), Making Out, Max Richman's Bulge, Oh And Banter. So Much Banter., Pining. SO MUCH PINING., The Answer Is: Very, The Clarke Family Ships It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:53:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24282394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElliHelm/pseuds/ElliHelm
Summary: Five times Zoey and Max kissed throughout their (totally just a) friendship.Plus one time where they finally acknowledged it was more than that.
Relationships: Zoey Clarke/Max Richman
Comments: 26
Kudos: 88





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So when I first set out to write this fic, I wasn't entirely sure I'd even post it. I'm an RPer by trade, not a fanfic writer, so this is out of my comfort zone. Special thanks to [Jade4813](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jade4813/pseuds/Jade4813/%20rel=) for being my cheerleader, holding my hand, and reading each part of this to give her expert opinion on my characterization of Max. Without her, I definitely would not have finished it nearly as quickly as I did. Another special thanks to the everyone who helped me work through idea blocks without even realizing it.
> 
> A few more disclaimers before we start. I am not Jewish. For any Jewish readers, I hope that I did your faith justice. I'm also well aware that Catholicism is not the only religion in Ireland, which is a disclaimer that will make sense after you've read this. Also, any explicit canon references are not mine. I borrowed them and then did my best to make them my own. Please don't sue me. I am poor.
> 
> And with that I bid you good day...

**I. YEAR ONE**

It’s Max’s first (of many) Christmases with the Clarkes and the Clarkes’ first (of many) Hanukkahs with Max, but looking around the Clarke household you wouldn’t know that. 

All the usual Christmas decorations that adorn the living space are there, of course. The 9’ artificial tree is a centerpiece in its own right, covered in ornaments both store bought and homemade through the years. Every surface that _can_ be covered in tinsel and lights _is_. Presents are piled under the tree and in all the family stockings hanging on the mantle of the fireplace: _Mom_ , _Dad_ , _David_ , _Emily_ , _Zoey_ , and (newly added, though you’d never be able to tell) _Max_. Only now there are ones for Hanukkah as well, interspersed evenly in the space as if they’d always been a part of the decor. Themed banners hang around the room and the tinsel is blue and silver to match. Decorative dreidels, some store bought and some homemade in a last minute DIY project, are scattered around as well. There’s a simple menorah on the table by the window, waiting to be lit by Max when the time comes, and on the dining table with all of the usual Christmas favorites are some for Max as well — several different latke recipes that Maggie had insisted on making _just in case_ and sufganiyot from a small bakery in SoMa.

And though Zoey’s sworn her family to secrecy on this (even though it should be obvious to anyone by how wildly over-the-top everything is), she’s been looking forward to this for weeks now. She’s been there every step of the way, fielding questions for Max from Maggie on how to make this the best Chrismukkah possible for him (mostly unsubtly at times) and _absolutely_ spending way too much time searching for the best ugly Hanukkah sweater for him so that he’d match in another family tradition.

He’s wearing it right now, actually — a blue, white, and gold monstrosity covered in menorahs, dreidels, and Stars of David that reads **_DECK THE HALLS WITH MATZO BALLS_ ** down the center of it — and every glimpse of Max that she catches makes her smile because of it.

Her parents aren’t blind to it either, it would seem. And she sees the looks they give the both of them when they think neither will notice too, loving but skeptical despite the many, _many_ times Zoey has told them ( _insisted_ , really) that they’re _just friends_. So when she leaves for the kitchen to grab more eggnog for everyone and bumps into Max on her way back, she’s more surprised than she really should be, backing away from the sloshing mugs to protect her own ugly Christmas apparel — a navy sweater ( _collarless! thank you very much_ ) complete with snowflakes, paw prints, a Shibu Inu wearing a Santa hat, and the words **_SUCH CHRISTMAS MUCH CHEER_ ** around it — and apologizing frantically.

“Oh God, Max, I’m so sorry! I didn’t ruin your sweater, did I? Because I can fix that! ... _probably_.”

“It’s _fine_ , Zo. Still just as cheesy as it was five minutes ago. Though I’m starting to get why your mom sent me in to help you,” he teases, reaching out in an offer to take some of the mugs off her hands.

“Hey now! I had things handled until you decided to be a big old Hanukkah shaped road block,” she retorts, though she hands him the two in her right hand anyway. “Besides, knowing mom, she was probably just— _aha!_ Yep. Knew it.”

“Knew what, Zo? That you’re predictably clumsy or—” When Max finally looks up to see what she’s pointing at his face falls into an unreadable expression, whatever else he’d been planning on saying falling into the void of awkward silence. “ _Oh_.”

“I know. _Real subtle_ , huh?”

“Well… at least they _tried_ to make it look like an accident?”

“Yes, you’ve got a point. At least this is _one_ step above them practically shoving us underneath it and staring at us until we kissed,” she agrees with a breathy laugh, leaning to look around Max just to check that her parents _weren’t_ actually lurking around the corner. _They weren’t. A Chrismukkah miracle._ “You don’t have to—”

“What? _Kiss you?_ C’mon Zo. Where’s your Christmas spirit? _It’s tradition_ ,” he insists, and Zoey isn’t sure if he’s still joking or being serious right now, but she rolls her eyes anyway, pushing his shoulder playfully.

“Since when did _you_ become such a stickler for Christmas traditions, huh?” she asks.

“Since my best friend invited me to her family’s house for Christmas so I wouldn’t be all alone and went all out on the Hanukkah decorations too,” he replies, sincerely. “Seriously, Zo, this is amazing. You shouldn’t have.”

“I actually think that you’ll find that I _totally_ should have, Max. But you’re welcome.”

He smiles at her again, wide and weirdly dazzling, and she’s smiling back when he leans down to kiss her, quick and chaste and completely, totally, one hundred percent _platonic_ , no matter what her parents thought they were orchestrating.

“C’mon, Zoey. If we don’t hurry up, your parents will probably start to get the wrong idea and think their meddling actually worked.”  
  
“Ugh. You’re right. Then they’d _never_ shut up,” she agrees, and she follows him back through to the living room like nothing had happened (because it _hadn’t_ ), handing her brother his mug and then settling back into her spot on the couch, across from Max.

They both spend the rest of the night pretending not to notice her parents’ knowing glances and sharing a few of their own. Sly smiles shared across the dinner table and gentle nudges before when he lights the menorah at sundown — starting with the shammash, the middle candle, which he then uses to light the candle on the far right after reciting what Zoey assumes must be the three blessings — that make her night more memorable than her parentally orchestrated kiss underneath the mistletoe.

For all her parents’ misguided meddling in her love life, it ends up being her favorite (if, for now, her _only_ ) Chrismukkah yet, and she finds that she can’t wait to celebrate with Max again next year.

* * *

* * *

**II. YEAR TWO**

_Should auld acquaintance be forgot,  
_ _and never brought to mind?  
_ _Should auld acquaintance be forgot,  
_ _and auld lang syne?_

New Years at the Clarke household is always a small, family affair, but this year, like the year before, there’s a newer addition, still learning the ropes of their own traditions (like how loudly Max could sing along to _Auld Lang Syne_ with them before it got even him and his theatre-camp trained singing voice some sideways glances) and sharing a few of his own (the apples dipped in honey were ready for him this year, prepared because Maggie had had the foresight to ask Max about his own family’s traditions for New Years last year).

It’s 11:28pm, still more than half an hour to go before it’s officially 2018 for them, and Zoey’s working on her third glass of champagne, _sufficiently tipsy_ (but not drunk — as an avid drinker of tequila and vodka, she maintains that it takes a hell of a lot more than _that_ to get her _drunk_ ) and nearly two glasses ahead of the rest of her family who keep whatever judgments they have about how much she’s had to drink to themselves. Right now, _tipsy Zoey_ is _chatty Zoey_ , talking about everything and nothing to whoever’s available to listen.

Which, at this moment in time, just so happens to be _Max_.

“—and I don’t really know why, but for some reason all of my pens keep disappearing? Which, I know, doesn’t really seem like a big deal, but whatever SPRQPoint gremlins have been stealing my pens crossed a line because that really nice one you got me for my birthday last year? _Gone_. I think I may have to wage an office war over it because that kind of sentimental value just can’t be replaced and— wait, are you still listening to me?”

When Zoey manages to break out of her rambling bubble and look at Max — like, actually _look_ at him — his eyes aren’t exactly _glazed over_ , but there’s this sort of fond, sort of amused smile that gives her the impression that he checked out of the conversation a while ago and has just been humoring her for the past...however long it’s been. It isn’t necessarily a _bad_ thing. Max doesn’t seem to mind that she’s been monopolizing the conversation. But it isn’t _great_ either when she’s just been trying so hard to help him feel _included_.

They’d even started their celebrations early this year to have a chance to watch the ball drop with him _live_ (which, in retrospect, was probably the reason she’d had so much champagne already).

“Of course I’m listening, Zo,” he says ( _oh yeah, she’d been worried about that before, hadn’t she? like_ literally _just a minute ago…_ — _tipsy Zoey_ was apparently also _goldfish brain Zoey_ right now), and she watches the movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallows another sip of champagne absently until her brain suddenly decides it’s the perfect time for her hearing to kick in again. “—imagining how that war’s going to go when you don’t even know who you’re fighting.”

“I have my ways!” she protests, assuming in the blanks from when her mind had decided to check out in the hopes that it’d at least _halfway_ make sense. “It’s probably one of the brogrammers anyway. Like Andy. Or— ooh! _Tobin_ … This is _just_ like something he would do, and two can play at that game! You’d… help me sticky note his desk, right?”

She starts to give him the very best puppy dog eyes that her ~~drunk~~ _tipsy_ self can manage, but they quickly become obsolete when he answers in agreement.

“Zoey, if you asked _anyone else_ to help you with that _very important task_ , I think I’d have to be offended.”

“ _Max!_ I wouldn’t even _dream_ of asking anyone else. You’re my best friend. My partner in crime. _The Han Solo to my Chewie onesie_. Pranking with anyone else just isn’t an option.”

“Glad to hear it,” he replies, and the resulting smile from Max couldn’t possibly be the reason she feels her heart skip a beat, so it must be the champagne. _It has to be_. _Tipsy Zoey_ has become _heartbeat skipping Zoey. That’s the only explanation_. “Zoey, I…”

“Yeah?”

“I should probably tell you… I already celebrated the new year.”

 _Already celebrated?_ Her brow furrows as she gives his words a moment of deep thought (and just to check if she missed something, she looks for the clock, breathing a sigh of relief when she sees that the time only reads 11:47pm), but when she eventually decides they still don’t make sense, she presses further. “...are you talking about the ball drop? Because that totally doesn’t even count. Just because New York is three hours into the new year and you’re _from_ New York doesn’t mean anything.”

“ _No_ , Zo,” he says, and _is he laughing at her?_ Zoey can’t possibly imagine what’s so funny to him, but if there’s a joke she’d rather be in on it than the butt of it, so she’s putting all of her ~~drunk~~ _tipsy_ listening skills into whatever he has to say next. “Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year? _It was in September_. So I already celebrated.”

“Oh.” 

_Oh._

“Yeah.” 

_September?_

“Is that like… a normal thing? _New Years in September?_ ” 

_Maybe it wasn’t normal and he’d just forgotten to mention it and she wouldn’t look like such an idiot._

“... _pretty much_ , yeah.” 

_Oh. Okay so it_ was _normal and she_ was _an idiot_.

“Right. Can you just—” She takes a moment to look around for a relatively safe flat surface to set her champagne glass down on. _Right. She’d be getting back to that later._

Now…

“Max” _smack!_ “Richman” _smack!_ “why” _smack!_ “didn’t” _smack!_ “you” _smack!_ “tell” _smack!_ “me?” _smack!_ There’s a beat after the last _thwack_ , as if she’s waiting to see if she’s satisfied with having sufficiently taken out her frustrations.

 _She isn’t_. With a final _smack_ she seems to settle, taking pride in the dispassionate ‘ _ow_ ’ that comes from Max more out of habit than actual pain. _Serves him right, letting her make a fool of herself like this_.

“...are you done now?”

“... _yeah_ ,” she says, and as if to prove it she grabs her champagne glass again, waving it around like a badge of… _something_.

“ _Great_. Zoey… it _really_ isn’t a big deal.”  
  
“I beg to differ. You not telling me that you rang in the new year _three months ago_ is a _very_ big deal. I’m your _best friend_ , Max. You don’t have to hide this kind of stuff from me.”

“I wasn’t _hiding_ …” The look she gives him is pointed, and though it makes him pause, it’s only for just a moment. “ _I wasn’t_. Look, Zo, you know I don’t have the _best_ relationship with my family. Holidays aren’t… the _easiest_ time. But being welcome at all the ones you and your family celebrate? _It’s enough_.” 

“But—”

“You _don’t_ need to celebrate _every_ Jewish holiday with me _exactly_ when it happens, Zo. It is _very_ sweet of you to try, though.”

It’s her turn to pause, and she stares at Max while she thinks, lips pursing as she debates what to say. Finally, she seems to settle on, “I guess you’re forgiven. You know. Being my pranking buddy and all.”

“ _Thanks, Zo_ ,” he replies, and for once she feels acutely aware of the layered meanings behind it.

It’s 11:59pm. Time has flown by in all their bantering, and if she listens hard enough, she can hear her parents loudly count down to the new year in the other room. _10… 9… 8…_ Zoey smiles at Max, draining the last of the champagne in her glass in one long swallow. _7… 6…_ There's still one last tradition left before the celebrations wrap up, and thanks to Max, for the second year in a row, Zoey isn't the odd woman out. _4… 3… 2… 1…_ She leans forward without thinking ( _tipsy Zoey_ is _thinking-is-overrated Zoey_ ) to press a soft, _meaningful_ kiss to her best friend’s cheek, oblivious to the flush that creeps into his cheeks when she pulls away as she pretends that her own is from the champagne. _Because it has to be._

It’s 12:01am. Officially the new year and the beginning of the end to their night.

“Happy New Year, Max,” she says, quietly, reluctant to let the moment end as she lays her head down on his shoulder.

“Happy New Year, Zo,” he replies, wrapping an arm around her shoulders in a half hug.

 _She has a feeling it’s going to be a great year for them_.

* * *

* * *

**III. YEAR THREE**

_Knock knock knock!_

“Just a minute!” she calls, and the usual scramble to make herself presentable is abandoned as Zoey throws on an oversized NASA shirt without even bothering to check that it was right side out ( _it was_ ). _It’s probably just the pizza guy_. No reason to worry about looking good for _him_ , even if he is her saving grace bearing Hawaiian pizza.

What she finds (or rather, _who_ she finds) when she finally reaches the door, however, wallet in hand, is not the pizza guy. _It’s Max_ , standing outside her apartment, sympathetic look in place and carrying a half-gallon tub of cookie dough ice cream, a bottle of her favorite wine, and his trusty DVD binder full of movies. 

All the elements of her standard breakup remedy. Seems she had a _new_ hero to be thanking.

“Max! You’re… _here_.” And the joyful smile on her face, in stark contrast with the puffy red eyes and lingering sniffles that refused to go away, is betrayed only by the marked confusion in her voice. _Didn’t he have a date tonight? Some girl he’d met on that new dating app — Hilo?_ Max had seemed so excited about it at work, even going so far as to show her the match so she could give the Best Friend Stamp Of Approval. (She was _cute_ , Zoey had agreed ~~reluctantly~~ , reeling from the bewildering comments he’d made about both her credit score and pain tolerance.) It was why her text to him earlier had read: **_You. Me. Emergency movie night tomorrow. Bring the breakup kit._ ** And then, a few minutes later, as an afterthought: **_Have a nice date._ **

“What about your date with um…” _Crap, what was her name again?_ _Max must’ve mentioned it at some point during the fifty plus times he’d talked about his Valentine’s plans. Rachel? Jenny? Abigail? No, that was his mom’s name, that’d be too weird. Maybe…_ “Avery?”

“Emily,” he corrects gently, an amused smile appearing on his face as a deep flush surfaced on hers. _Of course. Silly her. How could she forget?_ “And it didn’t work out. Now, can I come in? Or did you have some other best friend that you were planning on wallowing with?”

As if to emphasize his point, Max makes a show of craning his neck to look into her apartment, and she smacks him lightly even as she moves aside to let him in. “Ha ha. _Very funny_ ,” she deadpans, and for a moment Zoey thinks about adding a, ‘ _Sorry your date didn’t work out,_ ’ but the truth is… _she isn’t_. Misery loves company, and Max is the best company out there, horrible jokes aside.

At least neither of them had to be alone on Valentine’s Day.

“I’ll—”

“Grab the spoons and wine glasses if you get the movie set up?” she finishes for him, debating for a moment if she should also make a bowl of popcorn for them as well before deciding against it. All she had in her cupboards was that skinny stuff that Max made no secret about disliking at every opportunity. “You brought—”  
  
“ _The Phantom Menace?_ ” he finishes, raising his eyebrow and shaking his head. “Of course I did, Zo. This isn’t my first rodeo. But you know this means—”  
  
“That you get to pick the next movie? Because if you have to watch the ‘ _worst movie_ ’ out of an ‘ _already inferior franchise_ ’—” with each set of air quotes comes an exasperated rolling of her eyes— “then the least I can do is let you watch something ‘ _actually good_ ’ after? Yeah, yeah. This isn’t _my_ first rodeo either, Max.”

“As long as you know and accept that your taste in movies is _clearly_ atrocious, that’s what matters.”

“No, what _matters_ is that one of these days, you’ll finally learn to accept what you’ve known all along. That the Star Wars prequel movies are a cinematic masterpiece.”

“How much of a masterpiece can they be? Jar Jar isn’t even that funny,” he says, and Zoey _knows_ he’s messing with her. _He has to be_ because his face is currently the very picture of innocence. Straight faced even as he says what she knows that _he_ knows _damn well_ is one hell of a shot to be throwing at the girl who once sent an office-wide meme that read: **_Jar Jar Binks is adorable and hilarious and the best part of the prequel movies. You guys are just mean._ **

And sure, if she were to look more closely at him she’d see him struggling not to break down and smile, but the indignant rage at such blatant and unwarranted Jar Jar disrespect is a much welcome _distraction_. 

“Not that funny? You— _Maxwell Richman you take that back!_ ” she practically shrieks, launching a series of half-hearted _smacks_ that he easily deflects, breaking down into laughter and smiles as she runs around the room chasing him. “Jar Jar Binks is a national treasure. Admit it. _Admit it!_ ”

“I admit nothing! _Except..._ ” There’s a beat of silence as he pauses, seemingly deep in thought, and she stops chasing him to plant her hands on her hips and stare at him pointedly. “Except that the only good contribution Jar Jar makes to the franchise is the theory that he’s secretly a sith lord.”

“You—” Another _smack_ , this one much more final as she gives a resigned shake of her head. They could argue about this forever, but while they did, her comfort movie wasn’t getting watched and her comfort ice cream was sitting there, uneaten and _melting_. “I thought you came over to cheer me up, not insult my favorite character.”

Though, for all her protesting, his leg-pulling _did_ have its desired effect. Her heart felt lighter than it had in hours, and whatever traces of her crying spell that had remained when he showed up at her apartment were gone now.

“Zo, by the end of _my_ totally awesome, not-at-all-terrible-like-yours movie, you are going to be _so_ cheered up that you’ll have no choice but to admit that I’ve been right all along.”

“That is _not likely_ , but keep the dream alive, Max. _Keep the dream alive_ ,” she says, staring at him fondly for a long moment until something seems to snap her out of it. “Anyways—”

“I’ll set up the movie. You set up the food.” _Good ol’ Max. Reading her mind, as always_ .  
  
“ _Exactly_. And Max?” she starts, about to thank him for showing up tonight when he didn’t have to. It’s odd, she thinks, how she hasn’t thanked him yet despite how long he’s been here already, but in her defense she’d been a bit _distracted_. But as she begins to open her mouth to get the words out, she watches instead as he shakes his head, doing her best to ignore the flutter in her stomach and her heart when he steps up to her and presses a soft kiss to her forehead, right up against her hairline.

It doesn’t mean anything. But at the same time, it means _everything_.

“You can thank me later, Zoey,” he says, so quietly that instead of saying something in turn she nods in a silent agreement instead.

* * *

When they finally decide to turn in for the night and put an end to their impromptu movie marathon, it’s with Max slurring out his best Jar Jar impression to an equally giddy and giggling Zoey, answering in kind by seeing just how often she can insert the phrase ‘ _nuclear wessels_ ’ into her responses (the answer to which, by the way, is _a lot_ ). And okay, maybe she can finally admit that Max might be onto _something_ with the Star Trek loving, but Max _definitely_ can’t protest the comedic brilliance of Jar Jar Binks now either.

* * *

* * *

**IV. YEAR FOUR**

The feeling of brick pressing into her back is an odd sensation, uneven and slightly distorted by the denim jacket she’s somehow still wearing. For maybe a millisecond it’s grounding, cutting through the filtered haze that several shots of tequila throughout the night have left in her brain and making her _feel_ just that much more strongly. But after the novelty of it fades it’s just another sensation thrown into the mix, a significantly less important stimuli than the lips that eagerly seek out the pulse point on her neck or the dark, curly hair that’s surprisingly soft to the touch as she clutches his head wantonly.

“ _Max_ …”

* * *

_It starts like this._

Several shots of tequila for Zoey and multiple whiskey sours for Max at a bar neither of them can remember the name of, but it’s loud and packed and St. Patrick’s decorations cover every surface like a glitterlike STD. Neither of them start off the night wearing green, but as the festivities wage on, their collection of party favors starts to build: four leaf clover stickers on their jackets; green Mardi Gras necklaces that get passed out like candy, layered on their necks and their wrists; dorky party hats that neither of them can wear for very long without bursting into fits of giggles at how ridiculous they look. _They’re having fun_. Good ol’ fashioned, completely friendly, no tension — sexual-or-otherwise — _fun_.

 _Until it isn’t_.

Things start to change probably around the time a hat full of cheesy buttons starts to get passed around. More party favors. They both blindly pull one out and then pass it along the bar, reading it to themselves first before sharing.

“ ** _World’s Cutest Leprechaun_** ,” Zoey reads from hers, her smile so wide that her nose has started to scrunch as she waves it in front of Max before pinning it to her jacket. “I’m not sure if I should feel flattered or called out. What about yours?”

“ ** _Kiss Me, I’m Irish_** ,” he shares, and since drunk Zoey has eyes and apparently zero qualms with finding her best friend hot, she doesn’t even try to stop the thought that the cutesy, red-headed leprechaun that decorates his button has _nothing_ on him.

“Well that’s unfortunate. _You’re not even_ _Irish_. At least mine is _somewhat_ accurate. I _am_ the cutest and I’m also small and red-headed, like your little leprechaun man.”

“How do you know I’m not Irish, Zo? _The button says I am_.”

“ _But you’re Jewish_.”

“So? Pretty sure I can be both Jewish _and_ Irish.”

“And _I’m_ pretty sure that you’re wrong.” Zoey grins, the first hint that she’s just teasing and not actually serious. “Irish people are _Catholic_. Not _Jewish_. It’s like a law or something.”

“Oh, _is it now_?” he asks, and she’s glad that he’s starting to catch on because it would be a lot less fun if he weren’t.

“It is, yeah.”

“Well it can’t be, and do you know _why_?” She shakes her head, resting her chin on her fist in mock rapt attention. “ _Because the button says I’m Irish._ ”

“You and that _button_ …”

“When it’s right, _it’s right_ , Zo.”

“It also says to _kiss you_ ,” she points out, curious to see if Max has anything to say about that. Or maybe _curious_ is the wrong word for it. _Tempted_. There’s a flirty edge to her words that she’d normally shy away from. 

“That it does,” he agrees, and Zoey can’t quite place the meaning behind his tone but she’d swear she saw his eyes flicker to her lips when he spoke and _okay_. _Are they really going to do this?_ They’re drunk. _Very drunk_. Drunk enough that neither of them is thinking about all the reasons they shouldn’t do this — all the ways this could go horribly, awfully wrong.

Zoey is drunk, and that makes her _just_ bold enough to take the leap and lean across. To close the distance between them and kiss Max. It’s a short kiss, chaste, but when she pulls away her stomach is in knots and her eyes are half-lidded as she looks up at him.

“ _Something like that work?_ ” she asks, and her body is _thrumming_ , itching to pull him in for another kiss, but the ball is in his court now. They could brush it off as a joke if he wants. Say that it’s just the natural progression of their banter from earlier. But if he wants more...

She’ll follow him right out of this bar.

* * *

He hasn’t stopped kissing her since they’ve hit the street, and she hasn’t wanted him to, but as his hips press into hers against the wall, she becomes acutely aware of the fact that they’re still in _publi_. And the back alley of a bar isn’t really where she wants this to happen. Whatever _this_ is.

“ _Wait wait wait_ —” she says as she presses weakly against his chest, trying to ignore how the low, gravelly way he whines her name (‘ _Zoey_ …’) makes her knees go weak. “My apartment. It’s closer.”

When they finally manage to pull away from each other they both spend several minutes breathing heavily. Zoey uses that time to order their Uber to her apartment with shaky hands, avoiding Max’s gaze to try and keep some semblance of control. It isn’t a long wait, but it feels like forever without his hands and lips all over her, so when their ride arrives, she only waits for the car to start moving again to turn to Max and drag him into another kiss again. Making out with her best friend in the backseat of an Uber is the last thing Zoey would’ve thought she’d be doing, but she couldn’t come up with a good enough reason to complain about it even if she wanted to. _And she definitely did not want to_.

By the time they pull up to her apartment front the urgency to their kisses has mostly dissipated, so it isn’t quite so difficult to pull herself away this time. She grips Max’s hand tight in hers as she drags him out of the car, dodging his kisses on their way up the stairs (because she _refuses_ to be a casualty of tripping when they’re both _so close_ to the much-desired privacy) with poorly hushed giggles. 

It’s when they’re finally through the door and she launches herself back at him that the much dreaded tripping comes, sending the both of them stumbling through her apartment where they thankfully land with Zoey’s back up against a wall and not on the floor or, worse yet, on her coffee table.

 _They were way too drunk for this_. That thought is what seems to sober her up as she goes slack in his arms.

“Max—” she starts, and he seems to read her mind because as much as it pains the both of them he steps back and nods.

“Don’t worry about it, Zo,” he murmurs, and with the moment broken they part ways, Max to her linen closet for some spare sheets and Zoey to the safety of her bedroom where she collapses face first into the comforter.

In the morning they both wake with massive hangovers and no recollection of what happened the night before, dreading the work day ahead of them but grateful to be sharing their misery with each other.

“Hey, thanks for letting me crash at your place, Zoey.”

“Of course, Max. What are friends for?”

* * *

* * *

**V. YEAR FIVE**

_It’s like a switch flips in her head when she decides to kiss Max._

One second he’s just Max Richman: her best friend who’d been unfairly fired and whose job she’d somehow managed to save by the grace of Danny Michael Davis. Then he’s _Max Richman_ : still her best friend but with a confidence she’s come to only associate with his heart songs, and she starts to think... _Had he_ always _been this sexy? Was this old news that she was somehow only just noticing? Or was it a completely new and unexpected development that came courtesy of his recent bout of unemployment?_

She watches him talk about his future until she can’t anymore, and though she’s only half-listening to what he has to say, she’s still completely engrossed even while she leans in and closes the distance between them. _It’s a conscious decision_. Her first that hasn’t been influenced by holiday tradition or liquid courage, and that somehow makes it even more exhilarating even though the kiss is otherwise a short affair.

“Why’d you do that?” he asks, and for once the answer is so obvious to her that it’s impossible to overthink.

“ _’Cause I felt like it_ ,” she says, and the fluttering in her stomach and her heart that’s most definitely _not_ from any champagne increases tenfold as she looks at him, taking in the sheer wonder and adoration written in his face with a _smile_ and not _fear_.

Zoey knows what’s coming next from the minute his eyes dart down to her lips, so she’s ready for him when he says, “Do you feel like this?” before surging forward. 

Max, Zoey quickly comes to realize, kisses with his whole body, and it’s equal parts exhilarating and intoxicating as she scrambles to keep up, her hand instinctively reaching for his neck to pull him closer. Their moment is broken when an unfamiliar piano medley starts to play in her mind (at least, she _thinks_ it must be her mind, unless Max has somehow developed telekinesis in the last five minutes and is now using his power to play music to set the mood), but he keeps kissing her, oblivious to how her attention has now been divided. 

_Until he isn’t._

Zoey’s eyes flutter shut again as she feels his hands move to her shoulders, pressing gently, and she leans into the kiss until she can’t anymore because he—

* * *

—doesn’t pull away. At least, not completely. They part just enough to catch their breaths, neither able to stay away from the other long as they kiss in shorter bursts. On one such kiss Max bites her bottom lip before diving back in, and Zoey’s breath catches in her throat when he does that, hesitating to wrap her arms around his neck until she feels his hands on her hips, pulling her onto his lap in one smooth motion.

He kisses her fervently. Like he can’t quite believe this is actually happening right now, so he’s scrambling to make the most of it, devouring her with teeth and tongue while his hands run down her back, stopping just above the curve of her ass until she rolls her hips against his in silent permission and this feels familiar ( _why does it feel so familiar?_ ), but she can’t focus on that right now. Not when his lips are starting to trail down her jaw to her neck and he’s shifting their position again, turning them in one, smooth motion so that he can lay her down back against the couch so he’s on top of her.

His kisses linger now. Like he’s starting to accept that she really _does_ want this from him. That she won’t push him away the second her senses return to her. He takes his time, teases her with biting kisses back up her jawline where his lips hover over hers in a ghost of a kiss, their breaths mingling for one long, torturous moment until he can’t help himself, surging forward for an impassioned kiss that’s interrupted when—

* * *

—a hand slaps over his mouth.

 _She doesn’t mean to do it._ It just sort of happens as her frustration reaches its breaking point, regret following quickly after as she finds herself actually _missing_ his heart song. _He couldn’t have just_ kissed _her_ , she thinks, miserably, smiling sheepishly at Max as she pushes them both up into a sitting position.

 _This’ll be a tough one to explain_.

She takes his face in both her hands, looking up at him earnestly for a moment before moving both hands to his chest instead — a placating gesture.

“You don’t know this, but you’re singing another love song to me right now,” she confesses.

“What? _So embarrassing_ ,” he says, and she must not be getting her point across right because he sounds dejected, like she’s just said his breath stinks or he’s an awful kisser, _neither of which_ are the case.

“No! _It’s fine!_ It’s just... could you—?” _Please just_ kiss _me right now and sing about how much you love me later._

“Think about something else?” he suggests, earnestly, and _well that’ll work too_ …

“Just _now_ , for—” _me to kiss you. I really just want to kiss you_.

“Like… like something _sexier_? _Dirtier_? Is that the kind of vibe we’re—?”

“I mean, _sure_ , if you could do that, that’d be great…” _Maybe then she’d be able to_ kiss him _._

“Yeah, I could do that. _It’s already done!_ ” he says, and that’s her cue to push up onto her knees as he pulls her in again, kissing her first on her lips before moving straight to her neck. _He definitely wasn’t kidding about already doing that._

Zoey’s head falls back as she loses herself in the moment, grateful for the fact that she can’t hear the tell-tale opening strings of a heart song beginning because she just needs Max to keep doing that. To keep kissing that particular spot on her neck and she can die happy.

 _One. Two. Three. Four.  
_ _Uno. Dos. Tres._

His lips are still on her neck when the second heart song begins, and she gasps when his lips—

* * *

—find a particularly sensitive spot behind her ear. She can feel the satisfactory smirk on his lips upon uncovering it, but she doesn’t complain because the burst of confidence it gives him spurs him to press her back down into the couch, rolling his hips against hers while his teeth worry at the pulse point on her neck. When he pulls away to reposition into a more comfortable arrangement for them her—

* * *

—hand slaps over his mouth again.

“I’m sorry, but um…” She can’t seem to find the words for whatever heart song he’d just sung to her ( _embarrassing? sexy? embarrassingly sexy? was that even a thing?_ ), so she settles for trying to slap whatever _sexy thoughts_ had inspired that number out of him. When he pulls back with a confused ‘ _ow_ ’ and a wince she knows she succeeded, and she continues. “Changed my mind. Okay? Take it back. How ‘bout you just make your mind go blank? Like don’t think about _anything_.”

_Thinking was dangerous territory tonight, apparently._

“Okay,” he agrees readily, and with the way he’s looking up at her, willing to go along with whatever she has planned only makes her want to kiss him more so she does, leaning down for a kiss that’s soft and sweet, like their first that night had been.

“ _Come here_ ,” she hears as he pulls away to gather her in his arms and carry her to the wall, stumbling along the way ( _this feels familiar, she knows, but_ why _?_ ) though he manages to get a hand up to brace their impact just in time. She’s giggling as her back hits the wall, smiling into enthused kisses from Max and of course, _of course_ , just when she finally manages to get his mind to go blank and stop his heart songs her phone has to ring instead, demanding her attention.

He begs her not to answer it, tempting her with a gentle nip to her lower lip that he soothes right after with a kiss, but she _can’t_. She has to look. _Just to check_. And if it’s anyone other than her family she’ll just ignore it, only…

 _It’s Howie_. 

And her stomach drops because even before she answers it, she knows what’s coming. In the pit of her stomach, she _knows_ , and he must see it in her face too because he goes from 100 to 0 in an instant, switching from the Max who’d just pressed her against the wall with a very noticeable _bulge_ to the Max who had threatened to fight a stranger for a scooter to get her to a dad in the blink of an eye.

 _God she loves him._ _But it’s just not the right time..._

* * *

When he finally leaves her, it’s outside her parents’ house with a promise to talk about everything that happened that night later. _When she was ready_. And she knows he’s right. Zoey knows that the aftermath of her dad’s death isn’t the time to try and sort out this crazy mess of feelings in her heart that she’s only just started to accept. That if she jumps into something right now, there will always be that nagging thought in the back of her mind that she rushed into things. She can’t afford doubts. _Not with Max_.

But there is one thing that Max doesn’t know. _She knows how she feels_. She knows that she can’t regret what happened before her world came crashing down, and that when she comes out of mourning on the other side, she will still be just as in love with him as she was before the world turned upside down.

It isn’t the right time, but someday it will be. And when it is, _she won’t hesitate._

Not anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! The bonus kiss as promised! It ended up being way longer than I expected, but hopefully it lives up to the hype that the fifth kiss created last chapter. As always, thanks to Jade4813 and the babes in Clarkeman Nation for helping me get through this. Your support for me writing my very first fic (and the subsequent enabling to write MORE) means the whole world. ♥

_It’s finally the right time_.

Quite frankly, after two years of mishaps and misunderstandings, of dancing around each other and dancing with each other, and of progressively more romantic and sexy heart songs (at both opportune _and_ inopportune times), _it ought to be_. And after five years of friendship that, in retrospect, were not nearly as platonic as she’d made them out to be, two years seems like almost _too long_ to wait to promise forever to the Max of her dreams. (And, unlike Emily, she _does_ plan to promise exactly that to Max — he’s not getting out of it at _‘til death do us part_ like David is.) 

_Almost_.

Weddings were difficult. And time consuming. And _scary_. And after the disaster she’d made of David and Emily’s wedding with Train-gate, Zoey was happy to leave the bulk of the planning to her mother and Mo. _So what if planning it had taken a year? It wouldn’t have gone any faster with her at the helm (in fact, knowing_ her _neuroses, it would have probably taken even longer), and at least this way,_ _there couldn’t be_ that _much to mess up if all she had to do was show up and say ‘I do’_. (And even though Zoey was by no means a superstitious person, she knew both _her luck_ and _Mo_ well enough to knock on wood just in case the universe decided to cash in a vendetta for that particular passing thought.)

But the hard part was over now. All she had to do was walk out there, try not to cry, say some vows, exchange some rings, and _bada bing bada boom_ she’d be Mrs. Richman before she knew it.

Granted, the last time she’d caught so much as a _glimpse_ of her reflection she’d burst into tears, sending Mo into DEFCON 3 as he tried to salvage her makeup before it was beyond repair, so that _try not to cry_ thing was probably going to be a bit more difficult than she’d made it out to be. _But still_. At least making it to the altar _before_ she cried seemed like a decent enough goal.

“C’mon, Zo. You can’t keep him waiting all day.” 

Zoey turns toward the sound of her brother’s voice to find a soft smile that betrays the undercurrent of annoyance in his tone, his arm proffered for her to grasp whenever she was ready. _Now, she was ready now._

“Promise not to trip me?” she asks, smiling wryly as she links her arm with his and squeezes in a silent thanks.

“Zoey, please. I’m your _brother_. You _know_ I can’t promise that,” he teases, but a second later he adds, “I’ll wait ‘til the reception at least.”

She pretends to consider it for a moment. 

“...I’ll take it.”

“Knew you’d see it my way. _You ready?_ ”

“Let’s do this,” she says quietly, with a confidence she isn’t quite sure she feels but the utmost certainty that she’s making the right decision. 

With one last deep breath they begin the procession, and (not for the first time that day) Zoey finds herself grateful for all the effort Mo has put into planning this for her because it is the dozens of times they’ve spent practicing this that keeps her from breaking tempo and running right up to where Max stands at the altar, smiling at her like she hung the moon.

 _Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry._ It becomes a futile mantra as David leads her down the aisle and Zoey hears the processional music shift slowly into a tune that’s all too familiar. _Of all the times to hear a reprise_... But as the introduction ends and Max begins to sing to her, she can’t help but think that maybe this is the perfect time after all.

 _Pun..._ not _intended?_

 _I found a love for me  
_ _Oh darling, just dive right in and follow my lead_

It’s a simple heart song by all accounts. No dance moves. No sweeping her off her feet (not _literally_ , at least). Just Max, standing underneath the canopy, eyes only for her as he pours his heart out without realizing. And for what might be the first time since she’d gained her ability, time actually seems to _slow down_ as Max sings this heart song to her, prolonging what might just be the biggest moment in her life so far.

She doesn’t think she minds.

 _Well, I found a girl, beautiful and sweet  
_ _Oh, I never knew you were the someone waiting for me  
_ _Cause we were just kids when we fell in love  
_ _Not knowing what it was  
_ _I will not give you up this time_

Max can’t _know_ that he’s singing just like he can’t know that _what_ he’s singing is the same song her parents had sung to each other on their last anniversary, but with each line he sings, Zoey finds herself remembering her parents’ last dance with each other. The way her dad came to life in his heart songs and how, for once, her mom finally got to experience it too, even if it wasn’t _really_ happening. The love in their eyes as they sang across to each other, dancing like they were the only two people in the world. And she supposes they were in whatever reality her powers gave her a glimpse into.

 _But darling, just kiss me slow, your heart is all I own  
_ _And in your eyes, you're holding mine_

She’s always admired her parents’ relationship. Always seen their dedication and love for each other as the end all be all of romance. The _goal_ as it were. So maybe it’s a sign that she’s hearing Max sing _this_ song to her right now — of all songs that he could possibly be singing. Maybe it’s the universe letting her know, one last time, that it’s _always_ been Max. Or maybe it’s her dad letting her know that he’s watching over her right now and he approves, even though he can’t be here to walk her down the aisle himself.

 _Baby, I'm dancing in the dark with you between my arms  
_ _Barefoot on the grass, listening to our favourite song_

No matter the reason, the result is the same. Whatever tears she’d thought she could hold in are falling freely now, clouding her vision as she marches toward the love of her life. As she looks around at the familiar faces of her own friends and family — Mo, Joan, Simon, Tobin and Leif, and her mother and Howie who, coincidentally, just so happen to be _holding hands_ (a new development that she’ll need to ask her about, _after_ the honeymoon) — and the not-so-familiar faces of Max’s family — his parents, Andrew and Abigail, his brother Lee and his wife Caroline, plus a great deal of others whose names she hadn’t yet memorized but would no doubt come to learn eventually — Zoey could swear, just for a split second, she sees her dad as well, standing just before where she would reach Max with a warm smile on his face and tears in his eyes. And she remembers.

**_You’re always gonna hear me, whether it’s a song or not. All you have to do is... listen._ **

_When you said you looked a mess, I whispered underneath my breath  
_ _But you heard it, darling, you look perfect tonight_

Max finishes the song as she steps up into the canopy with him, and without the distractions of a heart song, she finally has a moment to really take him in. He’s the vision of perfection as far as she’s concerned, with the yarmulke peeking above his head and tuxedo tailored to perfection. (And really, with Mo in charge, could she have expected anything less? Though he’d been careful this time to avoid any more shirtless, fitting run-ins — for _tradition’s sake_ , of course.) His smile is wide and dazzling, and as she blinks back a few tears, she can see that he’s doing the same, and the smile that had been plastered on her face breaks and relaxes with a relieved giggle because _he feels it too_.

The rest of the ceremony passes by in a happy blur, though a few things stick out through the haze. She remembers their vows — how they’d both pulled out their own stack of notecards, Max’s much larger than hers, and started off by reading ‘ _I, Zoey Clarke_ ,’ and ‘ _I, Max Richman_ ,’ respectively (and her brother’s _completely_ unsubtle ‘ _Jesus, they really are perfect for each other_ ,’ that he’d muttered to Emily as a result), neither of them making it through without completely breaking down. She remembers the feeling of elation as they slid their wedding bands onto each other’s fingers, that moment when it finally felt _official_ . And she remembers the cheers of ‘ _Mazel tov!_ ’ after the glass-breaking, even though she’d still been a bit lovestruck at the time from their wedding kiss.

* * *

It’s not their first dance of the night. Or their second or even their third (and she’ll take the fifth before admitting that they could maybe stand to quit monopolizing each other’s dance cards). She doesn’t care. She’ll stay here in Max’s arms, swaying with him on the dancefloor, for as long as he wants her to. For as long as he’ll have her. His hand is a comforting presence on the small of her back, finding a hidden panel that Mo must have put there and rubbing small circles into her skin with his thumb. Every so often she hears his voice in her ear, humming along to whatever song is playing and she smiles where her head rests against his shoulder.

“Hey, Mr. Richman,” she says, soft and flirty as she pulls back to look up at him through half-lidded eyes.

“Hey, Mrs. Richman,” he replies, and she’s expecting the kiss that he bends down to give, leaning up to meet him halfway. When he pulls away grinning like an idiot she only wants to kiss him _more_ , but they’ll have time for that later. “You’re my _wife_. How cool is it that, huh? _Wife_.”

Zoey rolls her eyes.

“You’re a _dork_.”

“Yes, but I’m _your_ dork,” he says, and well, _he’s got her there_.

“Yeah. You are,” she agrees, playing with the hairs on the nape of his neck and letting herself lose her train of thought as they dance. When she notices him looking at her strangely she tilts her head up at him, considering for a moment. “... _what?_ ”

“Hmm? Oh, nothing. It’s nothing,” he says, dismissively, but she’s not giving up _that_ easily.

“Max, _I know you_. And I know that look. It’s not _nothing_.” Zoey nudges him playfully, hoping to tempt an answer out of him. “C’mon, you can tell me. I _am_ your wife.”

He seems to loosen at that comment, the goofy smile back for a moment until it’s replaced with a more thoughtful expression.

“I was just wondering if I’d sung something to you. While you were walking down the aisle. Another love song,” he says, and does he _actually_ sound _embarrassed_ by it? Have whatever insecurities she’s given him about singing love songs to her reared their ugly head again or is she just reading too much into it?

She really hopes she’s reading into it because she might actually have to hit him if he still thinks she has an issue with him singing love songs to her _on their wedding day_.

“How do you do that?”

“...do _what_?”

“Just... know. When I’m hearing a heart song.”

“Well you see. A couple of months ago _I_ went into a magical MRI machine, only _my_ superpower is—” _smack!_ “Hey! No hitting your husband at the wedding! I’m pretty sure that’s a rule or something.”

“Oh, is it?” she asks and with a mischievous grin she starts flicking and poking at him. “ _Is it_ a rule, _Maxwell_?”

“Alright, alright! I surrender!” he says, and they’re both giggling now, drawing some looks from the people around them though neither of them care. “Are you done?”

“...yep.”

“ _Thanks_. Anyway. What I was _going_ to say before you so rudely started _hitting me_ —” he holds his hands up to try and stop another attack and she just stares at him, blinking pointedly— “is that you get this look on your face. Like you’re zoning out. It’s just for a second but. _A husband notices._ ”

“Are you seriously going to take every opportunity to refer to yourself as my husband?” she asks, grinning.

“Yes. Yes I am.”

“Well, I appreciate your honesty.”

“So...” he prompts, and her curiosity piques as she wonders where he’s going with this.

“ _So?_ ” she mimics, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Are you ever going to tell me _what_ I sang? Or is this going to be one of those guessing games that’s a lot more fun for you than it is for me?”

“Oh.” _So that’s what he wanted to know_.

“ _Oh?_ ” he mimics, and he’s lucky she loves him enough not to hit him again for that, because she’s _tempted_.

“ _Whatever_. Um... I think it’s called _Perfect_?”

“...the Ed Sheeran song?”

Zoey nods.

Max groans.

“That’s so...” _What? Embarrassing? Max Richman if you say embarrassing I will slap you again._ “ _Cheesy_.”

_Cheesy? Well at least it wasn’t embarrassing._

“No. _No_ ,” she says, shaking her head. “It’s not _cheesy_. It’s _sweet_. My parents sang it to each other on their last anniversary together, and it was... _nice_ , hearing you sing it too.”

When she finally gathers the courage to actually look at Max, the first thing she sees is _shock_. Understandable. ‘ _You sang my parents’ anniversary heart song at our wedding,_ ’ _is_ kind of a huge curveball to throw at someone, even if that someone has done _way_ weirder things like join in on an impromptu Billy Joel number in the conference room for the CEO of the company. But then there’s _understanding_. And _love_. And just as quickly the tension starts to feel unbearable, _suffocating_ , and Zoey can’t resist trying to break it. 

“If you’re thinking of asking me who sang it better, _don’t_. I refuse to choose, and _you can’t make me_ ,” she jokes, distracting herself once more with the way his hair curls at the base of his neck.

She can’t handle another heavy moment. _Not right now_. And somehow, Max seems to get it because he’s smiling and shaking his head, saying, “I wouldn’t dream of it,” before he leans down and captures her lips in another kiss. It’s not their first of the night. Or their second or even their third (and even if she manages to count just how many they’ve shared since the ceremony, she’ll no doubt lose count again by the time they get started on their honeymoon). _But it’s good_.

And hopefully, if that heart song _means_ anything, it’s only just the beginning of _their_ forty years of wedded bliss.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [Tumblr!](https://leifdonnellys.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Comments feed me deep in my soul. Kudos boost my serotonin levels. Doing both earns you my undying adoration. ♥


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